


Journey to the Past

by LadyDanya



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anastasia AU, M/M, Memory Loss, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-11 21:27:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3333479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDanya/pseuds/LadyDanya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=50073205#t50073205">this</a> beautiful k!meme prompt asking for an Anastasia AU with DAII characters.</p>
<p>When catastrophe hits Starkhaven, only two members of the ruling Vael family survive: little Sebastian, who escapes the palace only to get lost in the confusion, and a family patriarch who offers a massive reward for his missing grandson's safe return.</p>
<p>Years later, Garrett Hawke and Varric Tethras are con-artists down on their luck when they hear of this reward. Luckily, they meet a naive young Chantry brother with a Starkhaven accent and no memory of his past.  They just might be able to fool the old man long enough to collect the reward....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Starkhaven

10 Years Ago

 

The ballroom dazzled, the ceiling sparkling with the light of dozens of crystal chandeliers; it was as if the night sky itself had come in and settled in the rafters to watch the party. The floor-to-ceiling windows were thick with frost, which glittered and sealed in the light, reflecting it back into the room, where it flirted shamelessly with the noble ladies, toying with the sequins and beads on their gowns as they whirled across the dance floor, winking at the gems at their throats and stroking the tiaras in their hair.

The effect was utterly magical, and the boy had never seen anything quite like it. He paused as he entered the double doors at the head of the room, eyes moving quickly around the ballroom, flitting from one wonder to the next in his eagerness to take it all in. Growing up in Starkhaven's palace, he'd learned early on that he fancied shiny things; he couldn't soak it all in fast enough. The dancing people in their fancy clothes, the play of light and shadow on the parquet floor, which had been polished and buffed to a mirror shine - this was more of a feast than the _actual_ feast laid out in chafing dishes on a row of long tables along one windowed wall.

He surged forward, meaning to run down the stairs that led to the dance floor... only to jerk to a stop as a hand closed on his upper arm, reeling him back. " _Garrett Malcolm Hawke_ ," a voice hissed in his ear, "what do you think you're _doing_?"

He sighed; the use of his middle name was an ominous sign. He bit back a bitter rush of disappointment as he turned to face the woman who had him in her grip. "I just wanted to - "

"To _what_?" The woman, in a palace servant's dress uniform, white tunic fastened with double rows of silver buttons down the front, looked more tired than angry; she fanned her greying bangs out of her face and heaved a sigh. "To disrupt the party? To get me fired from the best job I've had since your father died and we had to leave Lothering?" Another pair of nobles arrived behind them, and paused at the door to hand their fur coats to a servant; Leandra dragged the boy off to the side where they wouldn't be in the way. "Are you trying to _ruin_ us? _Again_?"

Garrett's ears flushed pink; the incident in Tantervale had not been his fault, exactly, not when the visiting countess's purse had been left unattended and gaping open so invitingly, the glittering bracelet within clearly visible from across the room, just _beckoning..._. "I just ... I ..." he stammered, knowing even as he started the sentence that he had no idea how to finish it. He looked down the sweeping expanse of red carpeting on the stairs to the long gleaming stretch of tiled dance floor below, and something in him wept, for the life he wanted so badly, but could never have. If he could only go lose himself amid the swirling skirts and glittering light for just a moment -

He didn't speak the words, yet somehow Leandra knew; she gave a long-suffering sigh. "You wanted to pretend to be better than you are." she said, and although her voice held no edge, it cut deeply all the same. She released her aching death grip from his arm and extended her worn hands, calloused from years of menial labor. "I'm sorry that you feel the need to remind me, yet again, that the life I've provided for you isn't good enough," she said, her voice going strangely flat in the way it always did when she was trying to bite back tears, "but I have done what I had to do for the both of us. And right now, I have canapes to serve. And _you,_ young man, are needed in the kitchen."

She spun on her heel, grabbing a tray of little finger foods - Orlesian, of course, to fit with the theme of the night's party - and heading down the stairs to move among the guests. Garrett watched her go, the tray gracefully balanced on one upturned hand; he felt sad and guilty as he rubbed his arm in the place where a row of finger-sized bruises were already starting show through the thin linen of his sleeve. He wondered if he should run after her to apologize, but decided against it; she was right about having work to do - palace events were always rough on the kitchen staff in particular - and if she were interrupted again it would only make her angrier. There would be time later on, once they'd both retreated to the small room they shared in the cellars, to make their peace.

He cast one last longing glance out over the dance floor before retreating, and his eye was drawn to a little figure weaving its way through the dancing couples, smaller than the rest. A boy of ten, maybe twelve years of age, younger and smaller than Garrett but not by much. They might have passed as twins at a distance, but that was where the similarities ended; while Garrett was dressed in the tattered, stained garb of a kitchen scullion, the other boy was resplendent in a white velvet doublet, trimmed with gold and russet, with a sash of nobility, bearing the crest of House Vael, fluttering behind him as he ran through the crowd. A little lordling, then, Garrett thought with a wistful sigh. _Lucky bastard_ , he thought; _I bet his life will always be easy_.

Then Garrett turned to head back to the kitchen and the work that awaited there. He passed through the small servants' door hidden off the entry vestibule, bumping into an armored man who hovered in the darkness of the semi-secret servants' tunnel just beyond the doorway, muttering an apology as he rushed past. If he'd stopped to think, he might have found it odd - sinister, even - for there to be a Templar in full uniform lurking in the dark, secret spaces of the palace.

But the problem was, Garrett _never_ stopped to think.

 

* * *

 

Prince Sebastian Vael ran across the dance floor, taking no notice of the feet and hemlines he trod on in his haste or the gasps of outrage that followed. He only had eyes for one thing, and that was the man who sat on one of the thrones on the raised dais at the fore of the room.

"Grandpapa!" he cried out, launching himself into the arms of the man, who had stood at his approach. The man hefted him into the air easily and spun him around, laughing.

"Baz!" the man said, blue eyes shining with great affection as he used the nickname that had become a treasured tradition between them. He was the only one Sebastian permitted to use that name; others had tried, and been scolded for their efforts. It was theirs, _his_ , a verbal affirmation of love from this grandfather who cared for him in a way his parents never had. "How are you, my little prince?"

"Sad." Sebastian pulled a pouting face, and laced his arms tighter around his grandfather's neck. "Do you _really_ have to go?"

Prince Lachlann Vael buried his face next to his grandson's ear for a brief moment. "And miss out on a farewell ball like this one?" He chuckled; Sebastian felt it rumble up through the man's chest before he heard it. "You've discovered my dark secret, little prince. I keep going away so they'll keep throwing me parties."

This earned him a giggle from Sebastian. Pleased, Lachlann lowered his grandson to the floor with a mock groan. "You're getting to be too heavy for this," he said as he ruffled his fingers through Sebastian's already tousled hair, the same mulled wine shade that his own had been before it turned a crisp and silvery white. "Or, perhaps I'm getting too old."

The former ruler of Starkhaven _was_ getting on in years, but nobody would dare call him _old_ ; he was as hale and healthy as he'd ever been, his muscles as tightly strung as the bow that stood propped against his chair. Still, it had been some years now since he'd felt that the onset of old age left him unable to lead Starkhaven as well as it deserved, and made the decision to pass his power on to more capable hands, abdicating the throne in favor of his eldest son, Rohan.

He may no longer be the ruling Prince, but Lachlann was still heavily involved in Starkhaven's politics. In the years since stepping down he'd served as ambassador, sometimes traveling among the other cities in the Free Marches as needed, but spending most of his time in Orlais. It was there that he was heading now, to the small palace that the Starkhaven crown maintained in Val Royeaux, where he worked to strengthen his city's ties with both the Orlesian court and the Chantry.

The ball tonight was held as an opportunity for Starkhaven's nobles to pay their respects and bid him farewell. The party and all its trappings had a Orlesian motif; his daughter-in-law Alisa delighted in making them suffer through theme parties staged to honor whatever place he was to visit. At least his visits to Val Royeaux resulted in pretty decent parties; the food was good, and the cultural decor that had been added to the palace appealing. There'd been some pretty miserable balls - and trips - in the past, when he'd traveled to some random shithole with nothing to recommend it; Kirkwall in particular stood out. He'd shuffled some random nephew into ambassador duty there after that one visit, and had never been back.

Lachlann settled comfortably back onto his throne, and Sebastian took the seat beside him, swinging fur-booted feet that didn't yet reach all the way to the floor. The boy was well aware that his grandfather had diverted him from his earlier question, and tried again, accompanying his words with the most winning pout he could muster. "Do you _have_ to go to Val Royeaux, Grandpapa?"

The elder prince eyed his grandson with some sympathy. It would be a longer visit than usual, with him wintering there and staying on to attend a delegation in the spring; the bright blue puppy-dog eyes the boy was casting his way were not entirely uncalled for. "Yes, little prince, I do."

Some petty noble was approaching to offer his regards; Lachlann warned him away with a stern look and a shake of his head: _not now_. "I would not choose to leave you, my dearest Baz, were it not necessary." he went on, reaching down to take the hands that fiddled nervously in Sebastian's lap and enfold them in his own. "But we all have our duties, to our city and to our Maker, that we must perform."

It was perhaps a cruel thing to say to a third son whose own contributions to the city were likely to be minimal, especially since Lachlann was well aware how jealous Sebastian was of his older brothers, how badly he longed to be Prince. "Being parted from you is the burden I bear to help ensure that Starkhaven remains a safe place for you and our people. It is a price I gladly pay for the freedom of my city."

Lachlann looked out over the ballroom. Some of the partygoers wore Orlesian-style masks, to fit the theme, but most were recognizable; he spotted Rohan and Alisa dancing in each others' arms, the train of his daughter in law's bead-spangled gown glittering in a crowd-clearing arc around her as they spun. Their eldest son Aidan was to one side of the room, propped on one elbow against the wall, leaning in close to converse with a dark-haired girl wearing a frilly gown in the most unfortunate shade of pink he'd ever seen. And middle child Sionn was at the banquet table, balancing a loaded plate as he accepted a cream puff from a uniformed serving woman with long graying hair.

"We all must do things we don't want to, in order to defend what we love." Lachlann went on, feeling a lump rise in his throat as he squeezed Sebastian's hands, because _this_ was what he loved, his entire world distilled down into one ballroom and the precious people within.

"To defend." Sebastian murmured, standing up and toeing his way past his grandfather to where the man's longbow stood ready, propped up against his chair just where it would have rested if he'd carried it on his back. "Like you do with your bow." His mind churned, trying to flush out some correlation between his grandfather's absences to Orlais and the longbow he'd spent so many long hours watching him use in the practice grounds.

The boy lifted the bow, fingering the ornately carved wood and the soft white leather that covered the grip reverently. Lachlann watched, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had told Sebastian years ago that the day he could pull the string of his bow, it would be his; and while the boy spent long hours of his own now practicing with a small shortbow, developing a budding proficiency at it, it would be years yet before he was capable of winning the larger bow for his own.

That never stopped him from trying, though, and despite the inappropriateness of the setting, Lachlann allowed him to pull an arrow from his nearby quiver and nock it. The bow was a good foot taller than Sebastian, and it wobbled as he hefted it up in front of him. On the dance floor, a few of the guests had noticed the boy with a weapon aimed in their direction and were uncomfortably edging out of the way. He pulled at the string, his muscles knotting under his velvet doublet, and then released.

The arrow clattered harmlessly to the tile at his feet.

Lachlann met his disappointed pout with a warm smile. "Perhaps a different arrow would help?" he asked, reaching into the quiver to pull something out.

Sebastian gasped, abandoning the longbow to dart back to his grandfather's side, leaning over the arm of his chair to see what he held. It was an arrow, but like no arrow he'd ever seen; a decorative one, a fat shaft ornate with silver tracery filled in with white and green and blue enamel. It was fletched with shimmering feathers that changed from green to blue and back again as the light hit them; Sebastian reached out reverently and let his finger trail down one feather, watching the barbs yield, then spring back at his touch.

The arrowhead was a flat and gleaming piece of silver, attached to a long slender chain. Lachlann pulled it free from the shaft and held it out, revealing it for what it was: a necklace. Delighted, Sebastian gasped and took it, turning it over in his hands to study the blunted edges and glossy sides. "It - it says something." the boy said, holding it up and squinting to read the words engraved on one side. "It says ... _Together in Val Royeaux_?" He looked to his grandfather, blue eyes wide. "Grandpapa, _really_?"

Lachlann felt laughter rumble deep in his chest. "Oh, my darling Baz. Not just yet, but someday. As soon as you are old enough to travel, we _will_ be together there. Until then, this arrow is my promise to you."

He gently took the arrowhead pendant back from Sebastian's hands, and lifted the ornate arrow shaft. He fitted the two together again, the arrowhead slotting neatly into the top. "And, a reminder, for you to look at while I'm gone." he went on. "Of where I am," he touched the arrowhead with one finger, tracing the words etched there, "and where you are."

He gave the arrowhead a half turn and some mechanism inside the arrow shaft clicked. The shaft opened lengthwise, splitting into two pieces bound together by a long hinge. Inside, there was more filigree work, this time not in the ornate Orlesian-style tracery of the exterior, but in the shape of buildings, towers, walls. Sebastian gasped as he realized what he was looking at, his hand flying out as if to touch it, but stopping short, afraid to handle something so delicate, so finely wrought. It was a perfect reproduction of the Starkhaven skyline, in miniature; an entire perfect world, hidden away in a case barely the width of a pinky finger when closed.

He stared at it, studying the exquisite detail; houses, horses, carts, dogs, trees with trembling leaves the size of poppy seeds. It was colored with the same enamel as the outside, the city walls white, with pops of blue and green between, the Minanter a slender band of blue at the bottom edge. Lachlann showed him how to relock it with another smart turn of the pendant-key, then handed it over.

Sebastian uncoupled the arrowhead again, slipping the slender chain around his neck. The pendant nestled under his doublet, the long chain reaching nearly to his belly. He felt it there, pressing cool against his skin. "Thank you, Grandpapa." he quavered, throwing his arms around the older prince's neck and pushing in close for a hug. " _Thank you_."

He felt the press of his grandfather's hand at the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair as the hug was returned; then the hand fell away, Lachlann's body going rigid and still beneath him. Confused, he pulled away, glancing uneasily at the older prince's face; his eyes had turned to ice, his mouth steeled in a frown.

"Baz," his grandfather said tensely, staring past him at some small commotion happening near the distant entry vestibule. "I think you should go to your rooms now."

Sebastian looked at him, upset and a little hurt. "But why?" he argued. "I didn't do anything - "

"No, you didn't." Lachlann agreed flatly. "But you aren't the only loved one I wish to defend while I'm away." The elder prince's hand twitched up to straighten the quiver that hung from the back of his throne, and lined up the edge of his bow, making sure everything was ready at hand in case of sudden need. "There's something else I must do now, and it could get ugly. I'd rather you were safe in your rooms."

"But - "

"Go. _Now._ " Lachlann growled in a tone that promised to brook no disobedience; upset and confused, the young prince turned and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd meant to obey; really, he had.

Sebastian headed toward the hidden door that was built into the wall behind the thrones. Obscured by heavy wall hangings, it led to the network of secret passages that allowed the royal family to move between the public spaces of the palace and the royal apartments in privacy; it was the quickest way back to his rooms from here.

But once he was there, one hand pressed to the paneled wood where the concealed latch was, he hesitated and looked back at the ballroom. There was no visible danger; everyone was still dancing, the orchestra still playing. Nothing had changed. Not only that, but his brothers were still there - Aidan was dancing now with the girl in pink, blatantly attempting to grope her through the frilly layers of her dress; Sionn and some of his friends were clustered near a pillar, discreetly passing a silver flask around between them. Sebastian sucked his bottom lip into a pout; why should _he_ have to leave, if they didn't?

He stood there, idly fingering the feathers on the arrow his grandfather had given him, and looked to the entryway. Grandpapa had been troubled by something he saw happening there - but when Sebastian looked, all he saw was his father's advisor, newly arrived, shaking a light dusting of snow off his fur-trimmed cape as he handed it off to a servant.

 _That_ was the threat that had him so worried? It didn't make sense. Father's advisor was a _friend_ ; Sebastian had known him ever since he'd moved into the palace two years ago, had liked him, had played with him and accepted his gifts and laughed at his jokes. The idea that the man could pose any danger worth missing out on the rest of the party for was absurd.

He wanted to stay. And, he decided, he _could_ stay. After all, Grandpapa was leaving for Orlais at dawn. Even if Sebastian did get caught, how could he possibly enforce any punishment, from halfway across the known world?

Sebastian settled in, leaning back into the draperies that hung from the wall, half-hidden there. He would stay, and he would watch. There couldn't be any harm in that, right?

  

* * *

 

Lachlann bristled as he watched the man at the door, tension pulling his muscles taut and his spine straight.

The latecomer handed his cloak off to an attendant, then held back for a moment to make sure that every drape and seam of his clothing was immaculate, giving his collar a sharp snap to ensure that it perfectly framed his face before moving to the top of the stairs. He stood poised there for a long moment and made a show of surveying the room, taking time to ensure that all eyes were on him as he made his entrance. Lachlann gave a snort of disgust; the man was as cocksure and vain as any the prince had ever met.

The man then strutted down the stairs, pausing to nod greetings to random noblemen and drop kisses on ladies' hands as he passed, full of warmth and grace and charisma. He crossed the ballroom floor, whisking a flute of champagne from a servant's tray with a flourish, thanking her with an exaggerated bow. He took his time working the crowd, acknowledging the other guests with a rakish charm, winking and flirting with many of the ladies and a few of the younger men.

He eventually swaggered his way over to where the royal couple stood and greeted them ardently, embracing Prince Rohan in a back-clapping hug, bending to kiss Alisa on each cheek. They welcomed him with an obvious affection that set the watching Lachlann's teeth on edge. The man's easy charisma made people respond in kind; but it also made him incredibly dangerous.

Lachlann didn't know how, but over the past two years the man had managed to completely beguile the ruling Prince and his family. He'd arrived in Starkhaven with nothing - no money, no past, not even a proper _name_ \- and had immediately ingratiated himself with the nobility. Within a frighteningly short time he was living extravagantly in the palace, acting as advisor and confidante to Rohan, who trusted him completely, almost blindly. He'd become the hand behind the throne, the whisper that wove itself into every policy, every decision that Prince Rohan had set in the past two years. The sheer amount of power that the man now held, both over his son _and_ his city, terrified Lachlann to no end.

But even more alarming was the rapid shift in the crown's official attitude toward the Chantry in the past few years, a change Lachlann had no doubt was influenced by this godless interloper; Rohan had even refused to send young Sebastian to serve the Grand Cleric, breaking a generations-long tradition. Starkhaven's relationship with the Chantry was fraying, despite Lachlann's best diplomatic efforts to hold it together; he could see an eventual split looming dark on the horizon. It was this, more than anything else, that convinced him that the once-pious Prince's thoughts were not his own.

He feared that his son was his advisor's thrall; it was no secret that the man was a mage. Even now, instead of the dress attire the other guests wore, the man was openly wearing mage robes, counting on his connection to the throne to protect him from any that might object to an apostate running around freely in Starkhaven. His creamy linen under-robe was topped with a very fine blue overcoat, heavy with gold chains and covered in golden embroidery that sparkled with inlaid sapphires - gifts from Rohan and Alisa, who kept him well supplied in the most costly of luxuries.

He'd gone from _having_ nothing to living in expensive splendor in the palace; he'd gone from _being_ nothing to pulling the puppet strings that ran an entire city-state. What else could it be, if not magic?

The mage downed his champagne with a single toss of his head and then headed toward Lachlann, stalking lazily across the ballroom in sleek, knee-length black calfskin boots. Lachlann waited rigidly, vibrating with tension. They both knew the apostate was expected to pay his regards to the elder prince; his status as Rohan's advisor demanded it. They also both knew that it was a farce, each man viewing the other, quite accurately, as his biggest threat.

He stepped jauntily up the stairs, stopping a polite distance from the throne before sketching the slightest of bows. "Lachlann." he said coolly.

The prince gritted his teeth and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. "Hello, Anders."

Silence stretched for a moment as they sized each other up, like two dogs circling for a fight. The prince used the opportunity to study the mage; he was far younger than his stature suggested, in his early twenties perhaps. Rakishly handsome, and well aware of it, if the care he gave to his appearance were any indication; he wore his long golden hair swept back into a neat tail, and a single gold earring glittered in one ear. It would have been easy to dismiss him as just another vain and pointless dandy if it weren't for his mage powers, which were rumored to be unusually strong.

The apostate looked away first, dropping his gaze to examine his fingernails in a carefully feigned disinterest. "Heading back to Val Royeaux, I hear?" he asked.

"Eager to see me go, are you?" Lachlann asked tensely.

Amber eyes flicked over Lachlann's face. "Just concerned; is it safe for you to travel at your age?" Anders asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in just the barest hint of a smirk.

"Trust me when I say I would stay here if I could." Lachlann replied coldly. "I've no desire to see how much more deeply you can ensnare my son and lead my city astray in the six months I'm gone."

Anders' eyes narrowed. "Oh, we're doing _this_ now, are we?" he said, moving closer. "You dare to accuse me, old man?"

"I dare." Lachlann stood, reaching for the grip of his longbow. "For too long you've held your unholy sway over my son. It ends tonight."

The mage glanced dismissively at the bow, both of them knowing that it posed no real physical threat to a man who could have a summoned fireball at his fingertips far faster than even an archer as skilled as Lachlann could nock an arrow. "I'm no blood mage." Anders said dispassionately. "Your son's actions are his own."

"You've led him from the Maker, and in doing so you endanger my family and my city." Lachlann said. "I'm giving you a choice: walk out of this palace tonight and never return; or refuse me, and leave it in chains."

Anders was suitably outraged at the insult, but unconcerned about the threat. "You're deluded, old man." he said tightly, spinning on his heel to walk away. "We'll see what Rohan has to say about it."

Behind him, Lachlann bit back his rage with a strangled groan. He'd given the man a chance; not that he'd expected the cocksure idiot to take it. What he did now was what he _had_ to do, to protect his family and his city and serve his Maker, even if Rohan would likely never forgive him.

When he moved, it was his hand he raised, and not his bow, reaching out to give the prearranged signal to the men who watched from the shadowed corners of the room.

 

* * *

 

Anders stalked down the half-stairs that led to the dais, bristling with barely controlled anger. The _nerve_ of the man! He'd known all along that the elder prince disliked him, distrusted him, but this was a new low, even for that doddering old fool.

He was, and had always ever been, Rohan's friend. Sure, the position came with certain perquisites to be enjoyed - his luxurious suite of rooms, gifts of fine clothing and jewelry, an endless stream of lush young courtiers eager to warm his bed. And yes, maybe he _did_ try to influence Rohan by opening his eyes to the injustices perpetuated by the Chantry; after seeing such abuses first-hand before escaping the Circle, how could he not?

But anything else the man imagined he saw were the ravings of a toothless old dog, howling into the void.

He looked back to the ballroom floor, meaning to seek Rohan out among the crowd, and froze. There was a surge of activity in the room, at first a subtle shifting as hidden panels in the walls clicked open, as draperies slid aside, as shadows uncoupled from dark alcoves and became men. Then, a small and dignified chaos broke out as these newly emerged figures stalked across the dance floor in a convergent line, the dancing nobles reacting to the interruption with muffled cries of outrage and alarm. They swept quickly through the crowd with skill and intent, some pushing the partygoers back to a safe distance, the others merging neatly at the head of the room. They formed an efficient semi-circle as they stepped into place around the dais, a human wall that sequestered Anders and Lachlann from the rest of the ballroom.

Anger melted into fear; fear quickly surged into terror as Anders realized what was happening. He took a step back, blinking in panic as he surveyed the two dozen bodies that cordoned him in, each one fully uniformed in a _very_ familiar armor, each holding an upraised shield emblazoned with a flaming sword.

 _Templars_.

Anders reached within, quickly trying to summon a fireball, but already that nauseating _scooping_ feeling of being drained, hollowed, emptied, was unfurling like a sickness in his veins. He felt the silence spell hit next, and along with it a stark, desperate sense of isolation as a part of him as necessary and natural as breathing was cleaved away.

The orchestra stopped playing, the music faltering sickly as the musicians lowered their instruments one by one, and the sound of hushed chatter rushed in to fill the vacuum the silence left. The gathered nobility were alarmed and confused and quick, already, to gossip about what was happening. The fact that this indignity was happening in front of the watching nobles, in front of friends and frenemies and former conquests, was perhaps the greatest insult of all. He could hear Rohan's outraged shout ring across the room, demanding, but the Templars refused to yield and let him pass, looking instead to the elder prince behind him for instruction.

 _Lachlann_. That makerfucking _bastard;_ he should have known. Anders turned to see the man standing beside his throne, his bow held in a death grip, hate clear in his ice-blue eyes. _You'll pay dearly for this, old man_ , Anders vowed silently before turning his attention back to the threat before him.

Three of the Templars pressed forward, the others closing ranks behind them. Swords readied, they circled Anders and closed in. The mage weighed his options, mind racing and skittering like a jackrabbit flushed out of the woods by a hunting dog. The way forward was blocked by that wall of interlocked shields that seperated him from the rest of the party guests, but he knew the secret tunnels of the palace better than anyone. There was a hidden door just behind the throne; if he could only reach it, he stood a chance of losing any pursuers in those close, dark spaces.

He feinted left, then made a break for it, but managed only to advance a few paces before the crack of a shield sent him tumbling to the floor. He bounced down the steps, landing hard, face-down, and groaned as he struggled to push himself up on a sprained arm. He felt a wrench of pain as his other arm was jerked roughly behind him, and looked up to see one of the Templars bending close, extending a set of manacles, while another unraveled a length of black chain.

No. _No!_ He would not allow himself to be taken. They either meant to kill him, or take him back to the Circle; either was unacceptable. He had seen so many atrocities in his time in the Circle, and had endured so much suffering, and that was as a normal mage, one the Templars _hadn't_ had reason to target. A return there _now_ , as a hated prisoner with Lachlann's list of imagined crimes to justify their abuses, would be _unspeakable_.... And that was if they didn't make him Tranquil for his sins....

He would not go; he _could_ not. He would rather die first.

Lachlann had given him two options: abandon the palace, or leave it in chains. But he hadn't been aware of a third option, the one Anders had put into place years ago, upon his arrival in Starkhaven. He'd learned long ago, after his many abortive escape attempts, to never leave his freedom up to chance, and had built himself a safety net. The Templars may have rendered him unable to cast, but he had chemistry; and enchantment was a form of magic, too.

He felt a cold bite at his wrist as one of the manacles clamped down roughly on his skin. With his other hand he clutched frantically at the collar of his robe, desperately fumbling with the clasps and chains, trying to undo them enough to slip his hand inside. Beneath his clothes, a polished stone hung from a slender necklace, nestled against his breastbone: a runestone. His hand closed around it and he yanked it out, snapping the chain, then held it out in his shaking hand, glancing at its flat gray surface. It was etched with a runic symbol that glowed and dimmed erratically with a pale blue light, humming slightly with the magical power that Anders had once locked inside it for future use.

This was his contingency plan ... a mixture of reagents, the most potent being sela petrae and drakestone, hidden in small quantities at regular intervals around the palace. And this runestone, holding the power that, if released, would detonate that series of charges and send fire and ruin raining from above.

His other arm was seized by harsh hands and yanked roughly behind him. He gripped the runestone in his fingers, letting his thumb slide caressingly over its smooth surface, and he took a deep breath -

The world went red.


	3. Chapter 3

In the kitchen, Garrett Hawke was discovering that there was something he liked better than shiny things, after all.

He'd been flirting with a certain scullery maid for some time now, a sweet young girl with pale blue eyes and a golden braid that hung down to her waist. They'd exchanged a few fumbling kisses in the stockroom over the past few weeks, and now, alone in the kitchen, it was finally happening. Sweet merciful Maker, _she was actually letting him do it._

He leaned close, pressing a clumsy kiss to the curve of her throat as he flexed his fingers, feeling the supple, yielding flesh of her breast press against his palm through her apron. Maker, this had to be the _best thing ever_.

The girl giggled, blushing, and pushed him away. "Get on with you." she said, laughing as he tried to pull her close again. "The tarts are going to burn if you don't get them out of the oven."

Forget the tarts; _he_ was going to burn. "There's already enough food out there to feed the entire city guard for a week." he protested, trying to slide his hands back up her chest even as she stepped away and reached for a tea towel. "They won't miss them."

He felt miles too big for his skin as she swatted his hands away again. He sighed as he grabbed a pair of heavy tongs, turning to pull the hot pan from the oven, and wondered how he could possibly focus on something so utterly mundane as _work_ when his body was still effervescing inside like all the Orlesian champagne they were serving upstairs.

He slid the tray of tarts onto the counter, his mind already tripping ahead, searching for another excuse to reach for her, to _touch_ her. He didn't want to waste this chance; privacy was a rare thing in the normally bustling kitchen. But with the party the staff was stretched paper-thin, most of the workers stationed upstairs to pour wine and serve food; all the labor-intensive prep work had been done earlier in the day, leaving just the two of them with a rack of trays waiting their turn in the oven. Garrett grabbed a pan of cheese puffs and turned to push it into the wood-fired stove, wondering if he could manage to get his hand _under_ her smock the next time he tried....

He glanced into the oven as he worked, mesmerized for a moment by the dancing flames ... and then the world heaved and suddenly the fire was _everywhere._

Garrett's body went spiraling up into the air, the world a whirl of color and light and roaring noise around him; he slammed into the baker's rack and fell to the ground with sheets of uncooked food crashing down onto him from above. He lay there stunned, his ears ringing with the sound of the blast, chest heaving as he fought to regain his breath. His entire field of vision was filled with red; fire danced and licked along every surface it could find, rippling along the floor and up the walls as it spread with alarming speed.

He was vaguely aware of pain, as if it were something seen at a distance through a fog; dazed, he looked down at his leg to discover that his pants were on fire. He rolled, as much as the shattered stone debris and scattered kitchenware that littered the floor would allow, and when that failed he grabbed the nearest cookie sheet and beat the the flaming cloth out. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, dizzy and disoriented, and tried to get his bearings.

The far wall was gone, and with it much of the ceiling; the toppled stone spilled out into the gardens beyond. Snow fluttered in through the open spaces, delicate flakes drifting in a surreal dance before evaporating under the heat of the flames. The girl lay there beside the open wall, half buried beneath large chunks of fallen stone, her pale eyes open and unseeing as they stared off into the void.

One by one his senses returned, sharpened, and with them his mind began to clear. With the ringing in his ears subsiding, he could hear screaming from somewhere deep within the palace, from the place where the guests - and the staff who'd been serving them - would be trapped and dying, if not dead already.

 _"Mother!_ " he cried out with a gasp. He spun on his heel and raced to the entrance of the servant's hall, which was already choked with billowing black smoke; without a moment's hesitation, he launched himself into the abyss.

 

* * *

 

Of all the ways Lachlann Vael had imagined he would one day die, being impaled by a falling chandelier was not one of them.

It seemed a thing more likely to happen in the Orlesian court, with all its inventive assassination attempts, than at home; but there it was, a twenty foot span of sharpened metal and pointed crystal plummeting toward him, bringing the fractured ceiling down along with it. He lunged, trying to roll out of the way as massive chunks of stone and twisted bits of metal rained over him.

He _almost_ made it.

An agonized cry tore from his throat as a long fragment of metal, its end jagged where it had broken off the main body of the chandelier, struck his thigh and passed through, pinning him to the floor. He had no choice but to lay there, body curled around his trapped leg, arms circled over his head to protect himself from the onslaught of falling debris, until the worst was over and the world stood still again.

He was covered in stone dust and ash when it was done, but he hadn't been struck by any of the larger fragments of the fallen ceiling. By the sound of things, most hadn't been so lucky; screaming filled the air, wails of terror and pain - but the crying voices were pitifully few. There was not nearly _enough_ screaming to account for the hundreds of people who had been present; feeling ill, he lowered his arms and tried to survey the damage.

He noticed the sky first, hovering strangely where it didn't belong; the roof was completely gone, the ballroom ripped open from above like the dollhouse of a tantrum-throwing child. The windows had shattered, the floor-to-ceiling encasements gaping dark and empty, like a row of missing teeth. Beyond, the sky glowed red, the whole world gleaming with a blushing incandescence as the low clouds reflected the light of the fire and bounced it back to--

 _Fire_. Lachlann's pulse tripped hard in his throat as he attempted to roll over and look behind him, forced to crane his neck at a painful angle in order to see. He was still on the dais near the now-splintered thrones; several paces behind him, the mage Anders lay in a motionless heap, three Templars sprawled dead in a semicircle around him. Beyond that, a solid wall of flames roiled, fire leaping up and sheeting down in cascading waves, glowing an unholy shade of red as it fed off the chemicals that had caused it.

He had to move, and move _now_. Gritting his teeth hard, he reached with a shaking hand to grasp the end of the metal shank that pinned him. A deep breath, a firm yank, a howl of pain, and the metal was free, slick with blood and flecked with gore; he cast it aside, panting rapidly as he waited for endorphins to dull the sudden flare of agony in his thigh. With quavering hands he ripped his sash from his chest and bound it around the wound, tying it tightly; it immediately bloomed with fresh blood.

Rolling over, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, feeling like a newborn colt as he took his first few staggering steps. He found his quiver, crumpled but functional, and unearthed it from beneath a smattering of small stones. His longbow was harder to spot amid the mangled metal of the chandelier, but when he finally pulled it free and ran a trembling hand over it to dust off the ash and grit, he found it remarkably undamaged save for a few nicks in the wood.

A groan caught his attention, and he turned, bow raised. The mage was stirring on the ground nearby, hands clutching at the tiled floor as he attempted to sit up. His hair had come unbound and hung in a golden sheet across his face; a loose chain dangled from one manacled wrist. Specks of ash floated in the air, drifting to freckle his skin and fleck his tangled hair. Beyond him, the wall of flame flared and roiled nearer, belching out heavy black smoke; one of the dead Templars had caught fire, the acrid reek of hot metal and burning flesh permeating the air.

Lachlann snarled and reached for an arrow; he meant to pump it straight into the bastard's heart, which felt like an entirely inadequate response. He could pincushion the mage with the entire contents of his quiver and it still wouldn't be enough; wouldn't even be a _start_. He extended his bow, nocking the arrow neatly. The bowstring quivered with tension as he drew it back and--

 _"Grandpapa_?" The voice was slight, barely audible, trembling with fear and confusion. The arrow slipped uselessly to the ground, Anders all but forgotten as Lachlann whirled around, eyes searching against the hazy gloom of smoke and ash.

"Baz?" The drapes at the back of the room, behind the rubble of the thrones, stirred; a single blue eye peered out from behind them. Lachlann surged forward, stumbling on his injured leg. " _Baz_. Thank the Maker; are you all right?"

He reached Sebastian and swept him up in the tightest of hugs, hand pressed to the back of his head, fingers clenching in his tousled auburn hair. The boy clung to him, arms around his neck, a hiccuping sob racking his lungs. "I didn't go to my room, Grandpapa." a tiny voice confessed tearfully against Lachlann's ear.

The elder prince felt impossible laughter bubble up in his chest as he buried his face against the boy's hair. "It's all right, Baz." he said, rocking him, unsure which of them he meant to comfort. "It's all right."

He hitched the boy higher in his arms and looked around them for an escape path. The fire roared in a solid, unyielding sheet that sealed them in, blocking the way forward. The only possible way out was behind them, through the secret tunnel that led to the royal apartments.

But when Lachlann released the latch that should have opened the door, it yielded only a fraction of an inch before it would budge no further. He tried again, leaning his shoulder into it forcefully; he felt something on the other side push back, some blockage of fallen debris that barricaded the door from within.

" _No_." he gasped hoarsely, going numb with horror. If he couldn't get that door open, they were dead. They were quite possibly dead even if he could, if the fire had spread through the palace beyond it, but he would worry about that when the time came. For now, he would get his grandson through that door, or die trying; he _had_ to.

He began to kick the door again and again, heedless of his injured leg, and when that failed, he resorted to pounding on it with his fists, calling for help in a rapidly weakening voice, praying to the Maker that someone, somehow, would hear and come to their aid.

 

* * *

 

Garrett raced through the labyrinthine inner corridors of the palace, his pulse thundering in his ears. The royal residence was utterly, terrifyingly unrecognizable. The entire building had shifted, _sundered_ , rooms bleeding together to form new ones as the walls between them toppled, old familiar routes shut off by new walls of fallen stone. Many rooms simply didn't _exist_ anymore, as ceilings and walls were laid bare to the night sky; others existed in duplicate as the rooms from the stories above tumbled down to occupy the same space. It was like wandering the Fade in a dream, the landscape familiar yet so bizarrely changed.

Fortunately, growing up in the palace with a penchant for mischief - and a slight bent toward thievery - meant that he knew his way around quite well, even through the places where the servants were _technically_ not supposed to go. It was mostly an easy thing to find new routes past the blocked hallways; even if a corridor was clogged with fallen stone, or a floor yawned where the tile had tumbled down into a room below, chances were a jagged new doorway would gape open in some nearby wall, and it would only take a detour through some formerly private bedroom or study to have him on his path again. He looked longingly at the rooms as he fled through them, tempted by the desk and dresser drawers just begging to be rifled in search of shiny trinkets; but not even that was enough to stop him from his task at hand.

Fire blazed all around in that fierce, unnatural shade of red, roaring as it tongued the walls and rippled along the ceiling like waves lapping at a beach. Some rooms were impassable, the flames roiling within like an overboiled kettle; others were so thick with black smoke that Garrett couldn't see his way through. Many places were choked with fallen stone piled too tall to climb over; Garrett had to continually backtrack, searching out new paths as his heartbeat hammered wildly and his mind screamed with a desperate sense of urgency.

He coughed hard, pulling the neck of his tunic up to cover his mouth, raising a hand to wipe a heavy sludge from his eyes of mingled sweat and ash and blood. His head was throbbing, and he lifted a hand to his scalp to discover a suspicious mass of something wet and sticky there. He froze, and panicked: were his _brains_ leaking out of some open gash? He touched his tongue to his fingertip, tasting gingerly, and discovered, to his immense relief, that it was merely a wad of pastry dough matted in his hair.

He was almost to the ballroom now, in the passageway that, if memories of past misadventures served, would end in a door that opened up behind the thrones at the head of the room. The damage was bad here, his progress slow as he clambered over knolls of fallen ceiling and edged past flaming timbers. His eyes watered against the stinging bite of smoke; his head reeled, growing increasingly dizzy from a lack of fresh air. He reached the door at last, and howled in despair as he found it blocked, a mound of heavy stones piled in a sprawling heap against the paneled wood.

There was an insistent banging coming from the other side, the repeated slap of an open hand against the door. "Hello?" Garrett called out uncertainly. Then, as a tiny flare of hope bloomed in his chest, he added: " _Mother_?"

But it was a man's voice that answered, muffled and weak: " _Help us_." Garrett paused to lift a hand to his mouth, stifling a belly-deep cough, before launching himself at the pile of stone, dragging the rocks away one by one. Some were so small he could simply turn and toss them into the empty hall behind him; others required a massive effort of straining arms and scrabbling feet to shift, leaving his muscles quaking and his fingertips scraped raw.

He worked furiously, only one thought tripping over and over again through his mind: Mother was in there, and this time, for once in his life, he was _not_ going to let her down.

 

* * *

 

Lachlann clutched Sebastian close, feeling the child's terrified sobs eruct against his chest, and crooned comforting words into his ear. "Any minute now, Baz," he promised, staring at the door with the intensity of a Mabari guarding its dinner. From within he could hear the sounds of frantic activity as the rocks were cleared, and he offered a desperate prayer to the Maker that nothing would go wrong, that it wouldn't be too late for them the way it was for the others who had been in the ballroom; the screaming had all but ceased by now, the air eerily silent and still beneath the roar of the flames, and _Maker_ he tried not to think about the other loved ones that had been in that room. "Another minute and we'll be saved."

When the door finally swung open, Lachlann blinked in astonishment; it was the unlikeliest of saviors who emerged, a skinny peasant boy, barely more than a child. The boy rushed past without seeming to notice the two Vaels at all; instead his frantic brown eyes searched the wall of fire behind them, peering wildly from beneath a mop of unruly black hair. "Mother!" he cried out, as if expecting to hear an answering cry from beyond the churning inferno.

His feet skittered on the tile floor as if he meant to lunge forward and ford a path through the flames; Lachlann groaned and grabbed him by the nape of the neck. " _No_ , son." He reeled the boy back just as a tall fragment of splintered wall toppled inward with a massive keening boom, flames funneling skyward as it fell. "There's nothing left in there for you."

Lachlann made his way to the tunnel door and started down the hall, keeping Sebastian hitched against his chest, dragging the urchin boy one-handed behind him. But his injuries made it impossible to keep his grip on both; his grandson slipped in his arms, the child crying out as the sudden jolt made him drop the enameled arrow he'd been clutching, the trinket skittering across the floor. The servant boy used the moment's distraction as an opportunity to slither out of his grasp, and with a bitter sigh Lachlann let him go, watching him scarper back out of the tunnel and into the sliver of habitable space before the raging wall of flame.

He apparently couldn't save them both, and Maker help him, there was no question which of the boys he was taking with him. He twitched Sebastian higher in his arms, feeling him settle snugly into the curve of his shoulder, and paused to make sure his longbow was strapped securely to his back; then he headed into the shattered palace halls and the promise of safety beyond.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian clung tightly to his grandfather's neck and pressed a tear-streaked cheek to his shoulder, breathing in the man's comforting scent of leather and wood oil and Orlesian aftershave. He watched, a single fearful blue eye slitted nearly closed, as the only home he'd ever known swept by in terrifying flashes of red fire and ruin.

Lachlann staggered beneath the boy's weight, his injured leg threatening to give out; but he kept going with a fierce determination, reversing the path Garrett had taken through the palace, over shattered walls and around floorless voids, until he reached the kitchen. A rush of blessedly cold air gusted in through the missing exterior wall, cooling their heat-blistered, sweat-dappled skin; they both gulped the fresh air in frantically as Lachlann slid over the spill of toppled stone that extended into the garden.

The palace grounds were just as chaotic as the ballroom had been; those fortunate enough to escape the palace now faced being trampled in the roiling crush outside. The scores of waiting horse-drawn carriages that had lined the drive bottlenecked together as the drivers rushed for the gates, swerving around crushed coaches and flaming debris, frightened horses breaking free and stampeding in their terror. The two princes were caught up in the surge of bodies and beasts, swept along to the palace gates.

There was safety in the niches where the gates bent back, where the crush of traffic couldn't reach. Lachlann sought refuge there, dumping Sebastian to the ground, his chest heaving as he drew in panting breaths. "I can't carry you anymore, Baz." he rasped; his face was white and drawn tight with pain. The bandage on his leg was soaked through with bright blood, flecks of it dripping to the pavement. "I'm sorry."

Sebastian's gaze bore past him, blue eyes wide and staring in shock and terror. Lachlann turned to follow his line of sight, and his stomach dipped sickly, a fresh wave of horror numbing his body and turning his veins to lead.

_Sweet Maker, his city ... his beloved city...._

Beneath a serene swirl of snowfall, Starkhaven burned. The force of the blast had sent flaming fragments of the palace walls scattering far and wide, smashing into buildings and shattering streets. The fires that burned throughout the city were perhaps less impressive than the sky-kissing inferno of the palace, but every bit as deadly; panicked people fled the flames in droves, chaos reigning in the roadways as a roiling mass of people, carts and horses rushed for the relative safety of the river.

The Minanter did seem the safest place to be just then, the broad expanse of water teeming with boats that pressed near to the shore to take on passengers. It was only a few blocks away, the wide street that sloped down from the palace gates forming a T with the stone-paved promenade that ran parallel to the river. "Baz," he said, taking Sebastian's hand tightly in his own, "we need to run to the waterfront. Do you understand?"

Fearful blue eyes met his own; the boy chewed at the corner of his lip as he nodded. He knew the boy wasn't ready, but Lachlann couldn't wait further; he couldn't trust his own injured leg to hold him much longer. He tugged on Sebastian's hand, and together they raced out into the street, dodging horses, swerving around the crushed bodies that lay on the pavement, motionless beneath fallen slabs of stone.

They reached the waterfront quickly. A barge hovered near the river's edge, water sloshing over its decks as it bowed and dipped under the weight of the people that swarmed over the railing, desperate to get aboard. It had begun to pull away from shore, starting to pick up speed, but not yet so swift that it couldn't be reached with enough determination. Lachlann gave one last push as his leg faltered under him, leaping from the promenade to the rail of the barge, pulling Sebastian with him. They clung to the outer rail, Lachlann struggling to swing his good leg over the top of the bar and slither over onto deck.

He turned to Sebastian; the boy clung limply to the back side of the rail, eyes wide and face ashen with fright. He hooked his hands under the boy's armpits and tried frantically to haul him aboard...

Out of nowhere, a figure leaped from shore, amber eyes feral, unbound golden hair whipping in the icy wind.

In the thousands of times that Lachann would replay the moment in his head in the long years to come, he would never quite be sure if the mage was actually aiming for his grandson out of spite, or if he was merely trying to make it onto the barge like any of the other panicked people were - though the presence of the Templars who raced after him strongly suggested the latter. Either way, Anders missed the rail and scrabbled for a handhold, clutching at Sebastian. His body weight pulled the young prince free from Lachlann's grip; both their bodies, boy and mage, tumbled backward onto shore.

 _"No!"_ Lachlann screamed as he watched Sebastian's body strike the ground hard, his head bouncing off the paving stones. _"Baz! BAZ!"_

The mage stumbled backward into the street, where he was viciously was set upon by the Templars he'd been fleeing; but Lachlann only had eyes for the boy, who lay motionless and vulnerable beneath the trampling crowds. He felt desperate, wild; he needed to _do_ something, _anything_ , to save his cherished grandson, but the barge was moving too fast now, and his leg was too weak.

He couldn't do anything but watch, screaming his grandson's nickname over and over, until the tiny body slumped in the street faded from view, lost to him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this setup turned out so much darker than I intended, and about three times as long as I meant it to be, because apparently I can't do things by halves....
> 
> I promise fun, flirty con-artist!Hawke and sexy shenanigans to come. Stay with me!


	4. Chapter 4

Kirkwall

Present Day

 

The usual noonday shoppers were roaming about Hightown despite the lightly falling snow, bored nobility with nothing better to do on a gray winter's day but spend money on needless trinkets and status symbols, and the young man scanned each face hopefully as they passed, shyly trying to catch the eye of a prospective buyer.

He wore the sunburst robes of a Chantry brother, and he smoothed his skirt over his thighs self-consciously with one hand as the other fidgeted with the cloth on the table beside him. Set up in the open courtyard before the broad Chantry stairs, sheltered from the snow by the looming Chanter's Board, the table was draped with a red and white Chantry banner and topped with an array of items that might have been mistaken for the sort of junk you'd find at the bottom of a moldering crate in an abandoned slaver's den, if not for the handwritten sign beside them that proclaimed: _Holy Relics for Sale_.

A noblewoman passed by, and hesitated as she looked down the bridge of her nose at the assortment of empty bottles, broken gemstone fragments and dull weapons. She lifted a mangy woven bracelet from the table and quickly put it back when her fingers found it sticky, giving a grimace of disgust. She would have moved on, but the young brother stopped her with a bashful yet charismatic smile. "Care to buy a relic, serah?" he asked.

"You're ... selling the Chantry's relics?" she asked suspiciously, fixing him with a sharp stare. "Does the Grand Cleric know about this?"

He met her gaze guilelessly, his face open and earnest. "Of course, serah; it was her idea." he said. "We're trying to raise money to feed the orphans."

The woman eyed the curiosities scattered across the table dubiously. "But ... it's all just ... _junk_." she sniffed, fingering the cuff of a pair of torn trousers with disdain.

"Oh, no, serah." the young man said ardently. Noting the vague attention she was paying to the pants, he gushed on with enthusiasm: "Those, for instance, are the Pantaloons of Saint Dagnor the Younger. He was a dwarven Paragon who gave his life to save Andraste from a nug stampede--"

The woman eyed him skeptically, lifting the folded bundle of cloth and letting the legs unfurl to reveal a normal-sized pair of plain, rather coarse pants with ripped knees and frayed hems. "They're ... a little _long_ to be dwarven--"

_"Maker's chest hair,"_ a voice said, "are those the Pantaloons of Saint Dagnor the Younger?" The noblewoman glanced around - then, failing that, _down_ \- to discover the source of the words - a sandy-haired dwarf in a worn leather duster. He had sidled up to the table unnoticed as the woman and the young brother spoke, and was eyeing the torn trousers with great interest. “I’d know them anywhere!”

"Yes, ser!" the young man said brightly, turning to the newcomer with a hopeful smile. "Would you like to buy them?" Then his smile faltered into an innocent frown as he considered: "But ... I don't know. I only have the one pair. You'd be the only one of your friends to own some like these; it might make people jealous--"

"You're right! I'd be the envy of the entire Merchant's Guild with a treasure like this--" The dwarf lifted a hand to touch the fabric thoughtfully, but the pants were yanked from his hand by the noblewoman, who was suddenly clutching them a little bit tighter. "How much are you asking for them, son?"

"Ten gold pieces." The young brother was apologetic, but added: "Your money would be going to a good cause, though. You'd be helping to feed orphans and refugees and people who are too ugly to find work--"

"Ten gold!" the dwarf exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you insane? I could easily get ten times that price if I sent them to my contacts in Orzammar. You should be charging more!"

"Oh, no," the brother said, gaping at him through wide, naive eyes; "it wouldn't be right to make a profit off of people. We're just looking to make enough money to help the poor."

"Well, in _that_ case--" The dwarf began to fumble at his belt for his money pouch.

The young man turned to reach for the trousers, only to find them clutched tightly to the noblewoman's chest. "They're _mine_ ," she said savagely. "I saw them first!"

The dwarf conceded the point with grace. "Ah, well." he sighed, a hint of regret in his honeyed voice. "As long as the orphans will be fed, I suppose that's all that matters...."

The woman dropped ten gold coins into the brother's palm, and scurried away jealously with her prize. The young man watched her until she was out of earshot, then let out a giant snort. " _Maker's chest hair?_ " he said with a bark of laughter, his facade of innocence discarded as easily as the Chantry robe he was pulling off over his head. "Isn't the expression usually "Maker's beard?"

"Hey!" the dwarf said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin for emphasis. "You’re stereotyping again, Hawke. Do I _look_ like a dwarf who cares about beards?"

Garrett Hawke grinned back, touching his own dark beard, and bounced his hand, listening to the jingle as the coins clinked together in his palm; the most beautiful sound in the world, as far as he was concerned. "We have the rent money! Have you found us a theater?"

"I have," the dwarf replied, "although I have to warn you - it's a bit _ratty_ , in every possible sense of the word."

Garrett heaved a dramatic sigh. "Ah, Varric," he said as he secured the coins in his belt pouch, "you always take me to the nicest places."

The dwarf gave a bemused grunt of laughter. "You jest, Hawke, but if we pull off this con, it’s straight to the lap of luxury for the both of us.”

“You don’t have to tell _me_ that.” Garrett said. He knew; oh _Maker,_ how he knew. It was all he could think about anymore; he’d even botched a couple of minor card-counting scams in the Blooming Rose lately by drifting off into daydreams at the most inopportune times. Ever since he’d first seen the missing posters that had started appearing around Marcher cities of late, he’d been consumed by thoughts of how he was going to spend his share of Prince Lachlann Vael's ten million sovereigns, an incomprehensible sum to a young man who'd seldom had two coppers to rub together in his lifetime.

It was going to be so very easy, too. The elderly prince was paying that staggering reward for the safe return of his missing grandson, whose likeness was printed on the posters; all they needed to do was find someone who looked enough like the missing boy - by now a young man - and could fake a Starkhaven accent. Surely somewhere among the teeming city of Kirkwall, especially with the recent influx of refugees, they could find one person, just one, of the right approximate age and physical appearance who could play the part convincingly enough for them to collect the reward. And now, with the theater that Varric had secured for them, they could begin to hold auditions and move ever closer to finding a Prince Sebastian Vael to groom and train.

Tricking the old man would be easy, especially with Garrett's inside knowledge of the Starkhaven palace and its royals. Besides, they only needed to fool him just long enough to collect the money and run; after that it wouldn't matter if the deception was discovered - in fact, some sly part of Garrett almost hoped it _would_ be, after the fact. What was the point of pulling off the scam of the century if you wouldn't be recognized for your genius in the end? “Ah, Varric, we’re going to be _legends_ for this!” he crowed, wrapping an arm around the dwarf’s shoulders and stooping to drop a sloppy kiss on the top of his head.

Grumbling, the dwarf tried to pull away from Garrett's embrace, then froze, his eyes focused on a point across the snow-blown courtyard. “Uh-oh.” he groaned.

The noblewoman they’d just scammed had spotted them talking to each other and, realizing she’d clearly just been had, was talking to a city guard, punctuating her words with angry gestures and shaking the worthless torn trousers in their direction. “We’d better get out of here, Hawke.” Varric rumbled.

Garrett turned to sweep their stash of junk into his arms – he could never walk away from a shiny object, no matter _how_ broken or worthless, a fact that Varric never failed to tease him about when forced to dally in abandoned warehouses while he searched every last rotting crate and crumbling barrel - but Varric stopped him. “Leave it! We won’t need it anymore; lap of luxury, remember?”

He groaned at the loss, but allowed Varric to drag him out of Hightown by the sleeve, tossing the stolen sunburst robe onto the ground behind him as they ran off laughing and breathless into the softly drifting snow.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, inside the Chantry, an _actual_ young brother was polishing the same candelabrum for the seventeenth time, letting out a wistful sigh as he worked.

The Chantry was quiet and dim, dappled with shadows from the snow that blew in shifting drifts across the skylights overhead. The dull and muted silver light that streamed in through the high windows mingled with the golden glow of the chandeliers that had already been lit, hours early, to ward off the wintry gloom. Baz's hand stilled on the candleholder as an unsettling sense of familiarity ran like the caress of an icy finger down the length of his spine. The sight of the chandeliers glowing against the beams of the tall ceilings felt significant in some way he couldn't put his finger on, as if he'd seen it before, in some other place, some other context, that his faulty brain couldn't quite recall.

He sighed, feeling disheartened and lost. He kept having these moments lately, when creeping memories would peer out from the dark recesses of his mind; but, maddeningly, they would always flit from shadow to shadow, never coming near enough to grasp. At first the feelings of déjà vu had been easy enough to ignore, but as the fragments of memory kept coming he couldn't help but feel increasingly displaced and discontent. He longed to chase those shadowy thoughts out into the light and lay his past bare for the viewing.

There was an entire decade of his life locked away inside his head that he couldn't access, an entire decade of _him_ that had been mislaid. There was something odd and haunting about having half his life obscured into nothingness, as if it were a sketch by a dissatisfied artist, smudged into a shapeless blur with the sweep of a hand through charcoal lines. His memory began in bits and pieces here in the Kirkwall Chantry, the only home he'd ever known.

There had surely been another home, once, but nobody knew quite where. He'd been found as a boy of roughly ten years of age, wandering the woods of the northern Free Marches, with no idea how he came to be there. He'd been found, freezing and near starvation, by a group of Templars who'd been traveling back to Kirkwall after investigating some event that had killed a number of their order in Starkhaven, and they'd brought him back with them and delivered him to the Chantry for safekeeping.

His Templar saviors had assumed at first that he was a simpleton; he'd been unable to speak, save for the single nonsensical syllable that he'd repeated as his answer to everything they tried to ask him: _Baz_. They thought the word was the name of the place he was from, some farming village too small to appear on the map, perhaps, and they'd taken to calling him that as they traveled, for lack of any other appellation. It had, in time, become his name, the only identity he would likely ever know.

Later, as his powers of speech gradually returned and the extent of his memory loss became known, they guessed he'd been through something traumatic. That wasn't such an uncommon thing in that part of the world at that time, after the cataclysm that happened in the city of Starkhaven and the subsequent burning of its Circle. They guessed that he had been separated from a refugee family as they fled the region in the chaos; his accent, which had been quite distinctly Starkhaven-sounding when he was younger, supported that theory.  He'd been taken to the Gallows to endure the attentions of the best healers the Circle had to offer, in an attempt to reverse whatever physical or mental trauma he'd undergone, but nothing had worked, and the memory loss remained.

Or so he'd been told; he had no memory of any of _those_ things, either. His memory didn't start at any specific moment, like the lighting of a spark; it was a gradual thing. He couldn't recall being brought to Kirkwall or introduced as a brother in the Chantry; his earliest memories were of the mundane, of doing his chores and living the new life he'd been eased into as an orphan in the service of the Chantry, of lowering the chandeliers to light the candles within as darkness fell each night....

Baz drew in a deep breath, taking comfort in the familiarity of the building that had become his home, in the smell of incense that drifted on the air, the way that dust motes spiraled in each slender shaft of pale daylight that shone through the frosted windowpanes. Perhaps he was simply seeking to find meaning where there was none. Perhaps the chandeliers seemed so familiar only because it had been a part of his daily chores for the last ten years to tend the blessed things and polish their absurdly ornate curves.

Still ... it would be nice to _know_. He'd lain awake at night when he was younger wondering why the Maker had seen fit to leave him damaged in this way. He'd imagined the Maker as a sculptor who'd grown unhappy with the form his work was taking and condensed him back into a block of raw clay to begin shaping him anew. He couldn't help wondering how he'd disappointed the Maker so; had he been such a bad person, to draw His scorn this way? Had he done such bad things that it was necessary that they be undone? The idea of it had long tormented him, particularly in his younger days, when he was still learning the ways of the Chant and the peace that came with it.

It was another, deeper, torment to wonder what had happened to the family he surely must once have had. A mortal family should have been able to forgive the imperfections that the Maker, in His divine glory, could not; but they, too, had abandoned him, apparently leaving him for dead in the snow-dusted woods. _Why?_ Hadn't they wanted him? Hadn't they loved him at all?

He felt tears well in his sky-blue eyes and blinked them back fiercely. These thoughts were unworthy of him. He'd had a good life in the Kirkwall Chantry; he'd been sheltered, clothed, fed, educated. To wish for more felt like a betrayal of everything that his new family there among the clergy had done for him.

Granted, the ten years he'd spent living among those hallowed halls had not been easy ones. He'd been expected to work to earn his keep, and to keep up with a rigorous course of both secular and religious studies. They'd also been rather lonely ones; there were no other children of his own age there, and those few older orphans who had been present when he'd first arrived had bullied him mercilessly behind the clerics' backs. The fact that he'd been different in every conceivable way had made him a target as surely as if he'd had an archer's bulls-eye painted on his back; his amnesia, his thick Starkhaven accent, his auburn hair - an unusual color for Kirkwall - all of it had marked him as an outsider, and left him lonely and grieving for something he couldn't name, something he must have once had but somehow lost.

He found himself unconsciously fingering the pendant that hung at his throat, and in a motion born of long habit, he pulled it from beneath his robe and let it dangle in the light, spinning at the end of its chain. He had no idea where the pendant had come from, but he'd been wearing it when he was found, the only thing of value among his tattered and ruined clothes. It was made of solid silver, which he'd carefully and lovingly kept polished to a bright shine over the years. It was in the shape of an arrowhead, its edges blunted so they wouldn't cut, but still pointed enough that he liked to imagine it could still pierce like a true arrow, if it had the strength of a powerful enough bow behind it. It was the one clue he had, the one suggestion that maybe he _had_ once had a family who loved and wanted him. You didn't give a treasure like this to a boy, even a deeply flawed, Maker-cursed boy, if you didn't love him ... right?

_Right?_

Baz swallowed, feeling grief lodge like a bitter knot in his throat, and grazed his thumb across the pendant, feeling the knobby texture of the words that were etched there. They were well worn from years of being rubbed for comfort whenever he was feeling sad, but they were still legible: _Together in Val Royeaux_. It _had_ to mean something. Val Royeaux was a long way from the Marcher forest where he'd been found as a child; it made no sense that his family would be there, so far from where he'd been cast away. Yet _someone_ was, someone who clearly must have loved him, once.

As a younger child Baz had lain awake at night dreaming of running away from the torment of his bullies, the fragile uncertainty of his new life and the anguish of being found flawed in the Maker's eyes; he'd dreamed of making his way to Val Royeaux, childishly certain of finding the love and acceptance he so badly craved there. Those fantasies had waned as he'd adapted to Chantry life, until he could now imagine no other way ... and yet, the dream of someday traveling to Orlais endured.

He was more realistic now; he no longer expected to find a loving family there (although some boyish part of him still _hoped_ ), but perhaps whoever waited in Val Royeaux could provide something more valuable: answers. Maybe, _maybe_ , if he could just find out who he was and how he'd come to be here, he could take his upcoming vows with an easy heart and settle into a new life as a full Brother of the Chant with a mind free from questions and doubt, to serve the church for the rest of his days.

It was a thought that had consumed him more and more over the last few months, if he were honest with himself. He was ashamed by the obsession; again, he found it an unworthy desire. The Chantry had done so much for him; would he really leave it, even temporarily, to chase after a dream?

“I think that candlestick is as shiny as it’s going to get.” a woman’s voice said kindly behind him, and he blinked, startled. He stared down at the cleaning rag in his hand in confusion, as if he’d been completely unaware of the fact that he was still absently polishing the same candleholder he'd started on twenty minutes before; then he turned to Grand Cleric Elthina with a repentant smile that didn't quite reach his lakewater eyes.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” he said with a polite bow. His accent had softened over time, though he would never lose it entirely; but a thick lilting cant still tended to come out in his voice whenever he was upset or excited. His brogue was obvious now, and he fought to bite the accent back quickly, before it could betray his doubt and give Elthina cause to question his mood. “I suppose my chores will never get done at this rate. I'll try harder.” He gave a half-hearted laugh that was meant to be self-deprecating but fell oddly flat as he turned to the next in the endless series of decorative items that he’d polished as part of his daily tasks for the past ten years. Maker, why did everything the Chantry had ever bought have to be so pointlessly ornate, with so many dust-catching nooks?

Her hand caught his arm, stopping him. "Baz." she said warmly, her gray eyes shining with affection. "You seem troubled, child. Come sit with me a moment?"

His stomach gave a nervous flutter as she led him to a bench overlooking the altar. Below, clustered masses of red candles burned, the statue of Andraste that towered above them gone molten under the golden wash of their fluid light. He had no right to be unhappy, he realized as he looked at the Prophet's graven face; how could he struggle with such petty troubles, when Andraste herself had gone to the flames without faltering? As burdens went, his own should have been an easy one to bear. Why couldn't he simply be content?

Elthina had seen right through him; she'd always had that gift, right from the start. The other clerics had come and gone over the years, and he'd never been particularly close to any of them; but Elthina had been a constant in his life, the one person he'd always been able to turn to, to count on. She had loved him, in her way, and had become as close to a mother to him as any woman could be. It should have been enough.

_Maker_ , why couldn't it be enough?

She was frowning as she looked out over the altar platform below, her brow furrowed. "Are we missing a banner?" she wondered aloud, then turned to Baz and shook her head. "No matter." She gave him a soft smile, reaching out a hand to tuck a stray lock of gently curling red-brown hair behind his ear. "You've been distracted for months now, child. Is there something on your mind?"

"No." Baz said quickly, then immediately stopped himself; lying, even through omission, was unworthy of him too. "Yes. I don't know." Out of habit he pulled the chain from around his neck and slipped it over his head, toying with it unconsciously between his fidgeting hands, the arrowhead pendant winking in the candlelight as it spun at the end of the chain.

"You have questions." Elthina said gently, giving the pendant a knowing glance; his emotional attachment to that one fragment of his past life had not been lost on her all those years.

Baz bowed his head. "Yes." he said miserably, winding the chain through his fingers. How had he come to be lost and abandoned in the woods? Was there anyone out there who yet loved him, who missed him the way he missed them without even knowing who they were? Would his hairline keep receding as he aged? So many questions, and only the mystery person in Val Royeaux could possibly know the truth to any of them.

Elthina drew in a deep sigh, studying the boy before her. No - while some part of her would always see him as the trembling, wide-eyed child who had been carried into the Chantry in the middle of the night all those years ago, he was a boy no longer. He was a young man now, tall and broad-shouldered, capable of carrying a man's burdens and making a man's choices. "Then perhaps the time has come to seek answers." she said gently. She reached out to touch the silver arrowhead that was suspended on its chain between his hands, lifting it in the palm of her hand, the writing on its side plainly visible even in the dim light. "Maybe a trip to Val Royeaux is in order."

He gaped at her, truly taken aback. "But ... I'm to take my vows soon." he stammered in confusion. As much as a part of him had always dreamed of doing exactly what she'd just suggested, it felt like a slap in the face; did she _want_ him to leave? Was she rejecting him, just as his real family once had?

"And I would be remiss in my duties if I accepted the vows of someone who was so clearly in doubt." Elthina said, cupping his cheek in the palm of her hand affectionately. "Baz, my child, you will always have a home here if you so choose. But your place here was something that circumstance chose for you. It's never occurred to me that maybe you don't realize it's okay for you to choose _not_ to be here, as well."

Baz drew in a shuddering breath, his confusion webbing rapidly into panic. "I _know_ what I choose!" he babbled. "It's always been my plan, to take my vows and serve the Maker. Whatever doubt I may have, I've _never_ doubted that!"

Elthina gave him a sad smile. "Maybe so," she said, "but will you truly be happy, with this uncertainty hanging over you for the rest of your life?" She reached out and gently touched the cuff of his sleeve. "Can you honestly tell me that this robe will never come to feel like a cage?"

He stared at her, mouth agape. He was silent a long moment, considering, his blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. "No." he breathed at last.

"The Maker deserves better than a servant who serves with only half his heart." she said. "And _you_ deserve better as well. Go to Orlais and find the answers you seek. If your path leads you back here in the end, you can take your vows then."

"But what if it doesn't?" Baz asked with a trembling voice.

She smiled affectionately, craning to feather a kiss on his forehead. "Then know that I'll be happy for you."

Elthina rose and left him with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. He sat in shock, staring at the pendant in his hand, thumbing the raised edges of the engraved words once again.

_Together in Val Royeaux_.

Could it be? He'd dreamed of making this trip for ten years, and just like that, it was happening? He fought to still the gallop of his heart as terror, panic, and _joy_ \- sheer, sudden, elated joy - came crashing together in a roaring clamor of jittery nerves. He'd scarcely been outside the Chantry walls in the remembered half of his life, and now he was going to travel alone halfway across the known world? Could he really do this?

Then again, could he _not?_

Perhaps Elthina was right. He could go to Orlais and search for answers, and maybe, _finally_ , lay these old doubts to rest. If things went badly, if he _didn't_ find the loving family he'd always longed for, then he would come back to Kirkwall with a clear conscience and take his vows. He could then live out the rest of his life in service to the Chantry, secure in the knowledge that he was where he truly belonged.

And if things went _well_....

Baz swallowed hard, the edges of the arrowhead pendant cutting into his clenching fingers as images of everything he'd ever longed for flooded his mind. Home, love, family ... acceptance. _Completion_. To be seen for the flawed being he so obviously was and to be loved and wanted anyway....

A trembling hope fluttered in his chest as he realized that maybe, just maybe, everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd lay awake at night mourning the loss of and thought he was destined to live without forever, could lay within his reach. A smile, his first genuine smile in _months_ , spread across his face.

Maker help him, he was going to Orlais.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Grandfather_ , it's me, _Sebastian_."

Garrett Hawke let out a groan and slumped forward in his chair, burying his face in his hands. Beside him, Varric Tethras sat with his arms crossed, staring with his mouth agape at the latest in the very long stream of actor-hopefuls that had graced the stage that day.

The man on stage had stunningly blue eyes, large enough to be noticeable even from the second row of theater seats where Garrett and Varric watched. But it was the _only_ physical detail the actor got right; everything else, from the man’s willowy frame to his sandy hair, were wrong. At this point Garrett and Varric were desperate enough to overlook things like the blatantly bad overacting, and hair could be dyed; but no matter how old and feeble Prince Lachlann Vael may have grown in the intervening years, he’d have to be pretty senile _not_ to notice the man’s long, sharply tipped ears.

“You’re not even the right _species!_ ” Varric called out in sheer exasperation.

The auditioner huffed in outrage. “That’s racist!” he shouted back, stamping his foot against the creaking stage so hard that Garrett winced, afraid he’d fall through the rotting floorboards.

It was nearing the end of a very long day, and tensions had already been high; Garrett saw his partner’s fingers twitch towards his crossbow and quickly held his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “Thank you for your interest in the role--” he said, and consulted the clipboard which held a very long list of mostly crossed-out names --“Jethann, is it? We’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve decided.”

The elf wasn’t completely placated, but he heaved a dramatic sigh and puffed, “Fine.” He turned to the wings, where the last few auditioners of the day were waiting. “Come along, Serendipity; if they don’t want me, they won’t want _you_ , either.” Another elf emerged from behind the moth-eaten curtain and the two of them flounced off the stage together, glaring at Varric as they went.

“Maker.” Varric sighed tiredly, while beside him Garrett expressed his own frustration in slightly more colorful language.

They had not expected finding a Sebastian Vael look-alike to be so damned difficult. In fact, they’d been deeply confident about it at first; Varric had a vast-reaching web of contacts among Kirkwall’s less reputable social circles, and it had been a simple thing to put the word out about the auditions, trusting that the prospect of sharing a third of Lachlann Vael’s promised reward money would do most of the work for them and lure out the right man.

Two grueling weeks of auditions later, they were feeling much less optimistic.

They’d seen what felt like every petty thief and hustler in Kirkwall, as well as a few bored sons of noble houses looking for a lark, regardless of whether they were the right age, physical type, or even, now, _race_ , over the past two weeks. Garrett flipped through the sheaf of papers attached to his clipboard, looking at the long lists of names with scribbled notes beside them, and estimated that the men – and a few women – that they’d seen could now very well number into the thousands. There had been a few that had come tantalizingly close – there was one man in particular that had seemed nearly perfect, until they discovered that he couldn’t fake a Starkhaven accent to save his life – but they still hadn’t found _the one_ , and by now they were scraping the very bottom of Kirkwall’s barrel.

“I guess it’s time to move on.” Varric sighed as they dismissed the last actor of the night, a man with thinning blonde hair that Garrett recognized as a pickpocket who worked the red lantern district by night.

Garrett turned on him fiercely. “I’m _not_ giving up, Varric!” he said with great feeling, his voice echoing from the rafters so loudly that it startled something small and squeaking from beneath a nearby chair. Garrett pulled his feet up and pressed them against the moldering upholstery of the seat in front of him, worrying at a loose spring with his toe. “I _deserve_ this! I saved that fucker’s life!”

Varric rolled his eyes and huffed a sigh; there were a handful of topics you _never_ got Garrett Hawke started on if you valued your time and eardrums, and his feelings of entitlement regarding the events that took place in Starkhaven ten years before topped the list. “Are you insane, Hawke?” Varric said, swiftly cutting the imminent tirade off. “You think I’m talking about walking away from a share of ten million sovereigns? I’d suffer through a thousand auditions this bad before I’d give _that_ up.”

Garrett sat back in his chair, only slightly placated. He’d saved Lachlann Vael’s life, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time. It was only long after the fact, when news came out that the elder prince had been the only member of the royal family to survive the cataclysm, that he’d put two and two together and realized that the bastard _owed_ him. He hadn’t necessarily _meant_ to save the old man’s life, but he did, and he didn’t feel it unreasonable to expect _some_ sort of reward in return.

He’d written a letter to Starkhaven as a teen, politely demanding compensation. He’d never received a response; he supposed it wasn’t a surprise that a missive with poor spelling and atrocious handwriting, which clearly marked him as an undereducated peasant, hadn’t been escalated to the prince, yet it had been a bitter disappointment all the same. So when news of Vael’s reward money came out, Garrett was fiercely determined to be the one to win it, and he felt no guilt whatsoever at the thought of scamming the old man. It was more than an opportunity to pull off the con of the century; it was a matter of principle. It was his _due_.

The explosion in Starkhaven had cost him his mother. There was no price tag that could be put on that, but three million sovereigns plus change would go a long way towards easing the pain.

“You idiot.” Varric went on fondly. “When I say _move on_ , I mean to someplace with fresh talent. Ostwick, maybe, or Markham. Our Sebastian may not be here, but he’s out there _somewhere._ ”

Garrett sighed, finally fully deflated. “I guess you’re right.” he said. It would be harder to operate outside of Kirkwall, where Varric had his finger firmly on the beating pulse of the city; but if their pool of potential actors was down to elves now, it was only a matter of time before the Qunari who lived in their own special enclave near the docks started turning up to audition too. Maybe it _was_ time to try their luck elsewhere, as much as the thought of having to wait, and _work,_ made him groan in frustration.

“It’ll be all right, Hawke.” Varric said sympathetically as they headed out of the theater and took the rather dubious precaution of locking the rickety doors behind them. “He’s out there somewhere, and we’ll find him, I promise. It's just going to take time, is all; it's not like he's going to simply come stumbling through our door tonight.”

 

* * *

 

Baz looked around him, blue eyes wide with either wonder or terror; he wasn't quite sure which.

It had taken rather longer than expected to find and train his replacement, but at last the day had come for him to leave the Kirkwall Chantry and strike out into the great unknown. He'd dressed that morning in the clothes Elthina had gathered for him from the charity box where they collected worn items for the poor - a simple pair of trousers and a tunic, and a long coat with frayed hems and missing buttons. It was the first time he'd dressed in layman's clothing in years, and it felt weird; the trousers were a bit too short, and the coat ridiculously big, the hem of each sleeve falling several inches past the ends of his fingertips.  

It had taken no time at all to gather his few belongings. There was no need to even pack a bag; everything he owned could be worn or carried. Aside from his new clothing, there were only two items he was taking with him, the only two items that he had ever truly cherished: the arrowhead pendant, which hung securely from its chain around his neck, and his simple elm shortbow.

He'd felt a lump of grief and loss lodge in his throat as he lifted the bow and turned it over in his hands, feeling the familiar glide of the polished, unadorned wood between his fingers. He'd always been drawn to archery; the arrowhead pendant left him certain that it had been significant in some way, in that unknowable void of his past. But more than that, he _felt_ it in his bones. There was a strange sort of muscle memory that simply _knew_ , that _remembered_ , how to hold a bow, how to draw its string, how to take aim and release an arrow in just the right way to make it fly true to its mark. He didn't remember ever learning the skill; he simply _knew_ , just as his hands knew how to hold a quill and form letters, just as his mouth knew how to shape speech, despite no memories of _those_ skills being developed either.

As a lost, lonely boy newly arrived in Kirkwall, he'd crafted a bow for himself from a sapling uprooted from the Chantry's herb garden. It had been a pitiful thing, weak and crooked, but he'd taken great comfort from it, soothed by the repetitive motion of plinking arrow after arrow into the chanter's board from a distance. He'd tried to be secret in his practice, and kept the bow hidden under his bed lest it be taken away, but Elthina was shrewd and missed very little that happened under her watch. He'd woken up one morning to find his handcrafted bow missing, and this one, a _real_ one made of sleek wood and oiled leather, in its place. It was the only gift he'd ever received - the Chantry did not encourage the accumulation of worldly goods - but somehow she'd known how much it meant to him, this orphan who had come to them with far less than any other orphan ever had.

She'd cared so much; and now he was leaving her. He blinked back tears as he left his sunburst robes folded neatly on his cot and looked around the sparse little cell that had been his room - his _home_ \- for the past ten years. Maker help him; was he doing the right thing? He'd had two weeks to think it over, to dance the razor's edge again and again, teetering between panic and excitement, longing and doubt, hope and fear; and still he wasn't sure.

He secured his quiver to his back, but chose to carry the bow, taking comfort from the feel of it, solid and real, in his hand as he made the rounds of the Chantry one last time. He'd shaken hands with a few fond well-wishers, then exchanged farewells with Grand Cleric Elthina, who squeezed his hands in hers and looked on him with tears in her eyes. She slipped him a small purse full of coin, just enough to buy his passage to Orlais and pay for simple accommodations along the way; he tucked it in his coat pocket as she pressed a kiss against his cheek.

"May the Maker walk with you, my child." she said as she escorted him to the door, and just like that he was once again a frightened boy lost and alone in the woods.

Now, hours later, he stood outside the ticket agent's office, waiting in line for a chance to book his crossing on one of the ships in Kirkwall's harbor. He'd made his way to the docks without major mishap, having lunch from a market stall in Lowtown on the way, and his success had boosted his spirits greatly, along with his confidence.

The queue was slow-moving, giving him ample time to look around him and stare in awe, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the bustling harbor district. The world held wonders beyond his imagining - every detail, from the gulls wheeling and screeching overhead to the crates of gape-mouthed sea bass being hoisted to the dock from a fishing boat, was soaked in through wide blue eyes. And the people - oh, Maker, the _people_. He was used to the well-bred churchgoers who attended daily services at the Chantry in Hightown; the people here were another breed altogether, dock workers and lowlifes, and Baz found himself clutching his bow tightly, wondering for the first time if he might actually have to use it someday against another person in self-defense.

It was overwhelming, at once both exciting and terrifying, and Baz found himself soothing himself by reciting bits of the Chant of Light as the line slowly shuffled forward. "For I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed...."

His distraction nearly cost him his turn at the ticket window; he was startled to find himself nudged forward by the impatient woman behind him. "One ticket to Val Royeaux, please!" he said brightly as he stumbled up to the window and caught his balance against the ledge.

The man behind the counter was bored and indifferent; he held out a hand without bothering to look up from his paperwork, clearly expected to be handed something. "Exit papers." he said.

Baz stared at him in confusion; when no further explanation came, he glanced around as if looking for help in the faces of the people nearby. "Errr ... exit papers?" he repeated questioningly.

The woman behind him heaved an irritated sigh. "Meredith's doing." she explained curtly, as if that explained it. When Baz gave her a blank look, she went on: "Anyone traveling in or out of the city has to be cleared by the Templars first. She's trying to keep apostates from getting in, or escaping. Damned waste of time, if you ask me."

"But ... I'm ... not an apostate." Baz said, uncomprehending.

The ticket agent finally looked up. "No exit papers, _no ticket_." he said with an unnecessary nastiness. "Next!"

Baz found himself shoved aside as the woman behind him pushed forward; he allowed himself to be shuffled away from the press of the queue and came to rest against a wall several feet away, staring vaguely as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Maker, what in the world was he supposed to do now?

"Hawke could help you." a voice said from beside him, and he turned to find himself looking into a pair of enormous green eyes. It was a dark-haired young elven woman, clutching a dead fish wrapped in newspaper which she'd clearly just purchased from the dockside market.

"I'm sorry, but ... what?" Baz said, feeling much like a fish out of water himself.

"I heard what the ticket guy said, and.... Oh!" The elf pressed a hand to her mouth, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm sorry; I was eavesdropping! That was rude of me! I mean, I didn't _mean_ to eavesdrop, but sometimes you just can't help hearing things, you know?"

"Uh...." Baz said, slowly inching away, his knuckles turning white as his fingers tightened around his bow.

"I'm sorry! I'm scaring you." The elven woman waved the fish in what was meant to be a reconciliatory gesture; its dead eye stared. "Let's start over again. Hello."

"Err ... greetings, my lady." Baz said, falling back on his impeccable Chantry-raised manners. He deliberately did not shake her hand, eyeing the fish warily. "What's a Hawke?"

"Hawke's a _who,_ not a _what,_ silly! He could help you get out of the city. He helped _me_ , once." She paused, taking a moment to think. "Well, he got me _into_ the city; that's not the same thing, but it's close. Well, the opposite."

"Uh ... that would be helpful." Baz asked cautiously. "Would you introduce us?"

The elf woman prattled on as if she hadn't heard him. "He was trying to sell my clan pieces of ironbark. Except they were fake. The ironbark, that is, not my clan. But you probably guessed that." Baz pressed his fingers to his temple and rubbed it; her rapid chatter was making his head spin. "They were sooooo mad. They really wanted to kill him. But they told him he could leave and never come back if he promised to take me with him."

She paused for breath and Baz tried to insert a word or two into the brief silence, only to be cut off as she kept going. "So ... that's how much they hated me." Her face clouded, reflecting some long-buried grief. "They wanted to kill him, but they wanted to get rid of me _more_. So he brought me back to Kirkwall. And helped me get in. Without papers. Which is what you need. Except to get out. Hawke can help."

"How may I find him?" Baz asked quickly, taking advantage of another brief lull in her speech. Fortunately, this time she seemed to hear him.

"He lives in Hightown, at the old Amell estate." She paused. "I don't actually know where that is. I've never been to Hightown. But he told me I could find him there if I needed him. So you could find him there. If you needed him. Which you do." She tapered off, having finally run out of steam, and Baz was quick to interrupt again.

"I thank you, my lady. You've been a great deal of help." he said, sketching a polite bow; she clutched her fish to her chest, her tips of her ears blushing pink.

"Tell Hawke that Merrill says hi!" she called after him as he took his leave, ducking through the crowds back the way he'd come.

Back to Hightown again - he hadn't even left Kirkwall yet and this adventure had already involved far more walking than he'd been expecting. Still, it was a great stroke of luck to have met the elven woman, and greater fortune still if this friend of hers truly could help; perhaps it was a sign, even, that the Maker was smiling upon this voyage after all.

_For I walk only where You would bid me, stand only in places You have blessed...._

Smiling, he slung his bow over his shoulder and headed up the stairs.


End file.
